


Neville and Isaac

by Cahoots



Category: Sixty Lights
Genre: T_T, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-26
Updated: 2012-11-26
Packaged: 2017-11-19 14:46:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/574419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cahoots/pseuds/Cahoots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>i dunno if youve read sixty lights, but its a very pretty novel, if a little too pretty with its long but vivid descriptions<br/>this was written as a creative for school<br/>i thought id just post it here<br/>also poor dear isaac</p>
            </blockquote>





	Neville and Isaac

**Author's Note:**

> and no he is not the physicist

He was traipsing through the dinky street, weaving in and around the messy stalls, and I did my best to follow him closely, keeping an eye trained on the white flashes of his shirt in the sunlight. Our recent adventures through the foreign Indian city had included many trips like this, mainly because he couldn’t stay still for a minute, always itching to see new sights, taste new foods. Mainly to smell new scents. His enthusiasm could overwhelm me at times, he never seemed to get tired, and I couldn’t help but get caught up in his momentum. His pale face bobbed in and out of the crowd of dark faces, and I caught sight of his hand pointing excitedly in the direction of the bay. As he hurried towards it, he knocked the corner of a jewellery display, and a bucketsful of white pearls cascaded to the ground. Apologizing profusely, I bent to help the disgruntled store owner, who mumbled foreign expletives and knocked my hands out of the way.

I glanced up to reprimand Neville, but he’d already disappeared into the throng. I sighed, and apologised one last time to the stall owner, who simply ushered me away. I headed for the bay and tried to peer over the sea of heads, and finally spotted him kneeling on the pier, something sparkling in his hands. The red Indian sun caught his dark hair at a compelling angle and the bay stretched out behind him, crystal blue. I thought back to a novel I had read, where the protagonist had described the colour of his lover’s hair akin to sunset, whereas here, it seemed more as a sunrise. It had more hope in it, less of a finality and more of a beginning of possibilities to come.

He called me over when he saw me emerge from the crowd, and I joined him on the pier. It was less noisy here, only the bumps of row boats and the occasional shouts of sailors; it wasn’t a busy day for trade. I knelt beside him and he showed me the item in his hands.

“It’s an opal,” he told me, “I found it on the shore.”

“Was that what you were looking for?”

He shook his head.

“No, I was asking around for a cinnamon trader.”

He looked at me, smiling softly. An eyelash tickled his cheekbone, and he shook the hair out of his eyes. There was a crinkle in the corner of his eye that I hadn’t seen before, perhaps a mark of his recent ailments, a mark of mortality.

“I think this is a better find, don’t you?”

I laughed at him then, realising how childlike he could be sometimes, despite his usual brazen nature. “I wasn’t aware of your simple sentimentalities, Brady,” I chuckled.

He elbowed me into the wooden pier. “I am a man of many things, Isaac,” he said, and he winked at me.

I felt my ears burn, and I aimed a punch at his shoulder back.

“I’m sure you are.”

He grunted in agreement, standing up again, and reached down to help me up.

For a moment I stared at his hand, noticing the dirt sitting in the grains of the dry rough pads of his fingers, and then I reached up and brushed them with mine, and he grabbed them, pulling me upright. My hand had been limp, his had been deliberate and strong, and I knew he must have felt it.

Instead he ran a hand through his hair, and headed up the pier.

I followed at a distance, watching the scuffed heels of his brown shoes strike the pavement. We made our way down the quay and I observed his erratic hand gestures and exaggerated facial expressions as he conversed with what was left of the cinnamon traders, his eyes bright and eager. I watched from the side, content to let him work his expertise, feeling something of admiration. Then Neville began to jab one of the traders in the chest with a forefinger.

I started to walk over, sensing danger, when the man retaliated, rounding on him and punching him in the gut. Suddenly, Neville was surrounded by men, and angry shouts and threatening stances filled the area. I ran to him, desperate to help him, and squeezed myself between the aggressors and my best friend, when the largest man in a loose purple shirt and a silver ring glinting swung hard, and clobbered me in the ear. I yelped and swayed, the fist had been rock hard and the sight of angry faces swirled above me. I fell sideways, and felt a hand clasp around my upper arm, and we fled into the safe haven of the colourful pulsing crowd.

We didn’t stop there, winding through the pulsing mass of people in saris and hats, dark faces flashing in and out of my vision, the yells of the pier slowly fading behind us to be replaced by the noisy chatter of stalls and forceful, enticing cries of their respective owners. Panting hard, I trained my eyes on the brown mess of hair belonging to the head of the man dragging me along. The adrenaline racing through my veins was enough to overcome any pain I felt at the blow received by my throbbing ear -  it was trivial to the warmth that was filling me up, shortening my breath more than the sprint was.  All this caused by the notion that I was running with this man who was clutching my arm, we were one in this mad dash and I could not lose sight of him for a moment.

It seemed to last forever until we whirled round a corner into a side street, a small alleyway enclosed by stark red bricks, and then it was over too soon. He stopped and I slowed, collapsing into a wall, exhausted. Now the exertion was catching up with me. Neville was bent over double with his hands on his knees, panting hard, and I leant against the warm bricks, looking up to the sky, waiting to calm down. I felt, as silly as it seemed, like a damsel who had just been in distress, a Marianne Dashwood who had just slipped in the rain, and Neville had been a John Willoughby, saving me from the woes of a twisted ankle, my knight in shining armour, albeit a brash and stupid one who had inferred the distress of rain in the first place. He looked at me with wide, childlike eyes, and I wanted to glare at him for being so reckless, but my feelings betrayed me and a small smile tugged at my lips. He was smirking himself, and then he was laughing, and I was laughing, the exhilaration piling out in a rush, relief spreading over us. I shook my head in wonder, and he stood up and leant against the wall beside me, chuckling away, a deep throaty sound.

I was acutely aware of his body, his hand hanging loose by his side, awfully close to my leg. I sensed his dark wisps of hair brush near my ear, and my upper arm tingled where he had touched it. Soon we fell silent again, and my whole being was focused on the warm body radiating heat beside me, a chest rising and falling, a breath moving out of the lips.

“Sorry about that,” Neville sighed suddenly. I shrugged, unable to form a reply. He mirrored the shrug and the back of his hand brushed the back of my fingers as he turned to face me. I shifted at the touch, the back of my shirt scraping across the bricks, and stared down at the dirty pavement. I was well aware of the brown eyes upon me and chose to ignore them. Of course, I couldn’t, and my ears burned against my volition. I was afraid to look up. To meet the gaze would give away everything, all that had developed over the past months spent with him, the fondness I had formed, and the something more that had struck deep within when he had lain on his sick bed. I was afraid to show him how much he meant to me.

There was a noise and I turned to find him inches from my face, his warm breath flooding over me. My eyes grew wide and I lost myself in those deep, warm irises as his right hand rose to touch my cheek.

“Uh,” I breathed, cursing my lack of speech, and then he leant even closer, and I was frozen, the earth spinning wildly from underneath me, and I would have fallen if his other hand hadn’t just caught my chin, lifting it up, pulling me near. I held my breath. The beating of my heart was unbearable.

Gently, he turned my head to the side.

“It looks as if there’ll be a bruise there soon,” he said quietly, a twinge of guilt in his voice.

In my mind, he was upon me. Our lips brushed against each other and all the breath I had left was taken from me. My cheeks burned impossibly hot, red radiating from my face and the tips of my ears, and his hands were warm upon my face, his breath was warm, he tasted sweet.

A small unwanted noise escaped from my throat. I cleared my throat from embarrassment.

He seemed to take it as a disgruntled reply, and dropped his hands, eyes cast at the ground, shifting awkwardly.

“I’m sorry, Isaac,” he murmured.

I cleared my throat again, trying to shake off my imaginings. “Don’t be daft, it’s barely a scratch!” I attempted a light-hearted chuckle, and nudged him in the elbow.

He looked up, and smiled, and I knew that I was lost forever. There would never be anything - anyone - like this.

 

…

When he left, several months later, my suspicions were confirmed, and I felt the extent of my loss greatly.

“We’ll meet again soon,” he’d said, as he climbed upon the ship, looking back to wave at me, taking a piece of me with him.

“No, we won’t,” I’d whispered when his back turned on me, and he faced the sea. My hand fell limp to my side, weary of its farewell salute. The statement would go on to be true, and then and there I felt it, a heavy weight in my chest, pushing me down, crushing my soul, my heart.

Now Lucy arrives, hair windswept, eyes bright, and I see so much of Neville in those eyes. She is dressed in the plum coloured dress and I wave, a foolish hint of hope rising inside of me. It is immediately quenched as she nears, looking a little forlorn, and I see that she is not quite Neville, not quite him. I shake the threatening onslaught of thoughts long forgotten, and try to smile a little. She looks pale.

“Just one piece of luggage?” I ask, attempting speech. My hands tremble as I pick it up, and I take her by the elbow and guide her to the rickshaw. We are both silent, lost in thoughts, and I welcome it.


End file.
